Page 11 of Daydream

I get two lines in before her fingers drum against the desk as she hums what sounds like the tune of “Best Song Ever.”

Sighing dramatically so she knows how annoying she is, I mute her.

Getting Gigi to listen to the audiobook this summer was practically a full-time job, so I’m quietly proud of her for finishing her essay on time. I’ve been helping her with her schoolwork since our parents got married when she was five. I was the one who originally suspected she was dyslexic and had ADHD, and the one who worked with her for hours practicing dictation until she mastered it.

Now I’m her unqualified tutor because, according to my mom and Paul, her dad, I’m the only person Gigi listens to. Which, as I unmute her and immediately hear her blasting “Midnight Memories,” I can confirm is a lie.

They claim she needs academic reassurance. As well as all the assurances I give when they call me begging for me to “talk some sense into her.” Paul has full-time custody of Gigi because Lucia, Gigi’s mom, gets posted overseas often and it isn’t guaranteed Gigiwould get the academic support she needs if she moved to different schools. As nice as he is, Paul has no idea how to handle a teenage girl and my mom wants an easy life, which teen-me gave her, so it’s easier for her to send Gigi in my direction. Maisie, our shared half sister, is too quiet to be any kind of threat to Mom’s peace. Grayson was a nightmare teenager, always fighting and getting into trouble, but my mom looks back on it with rose-tinted glasses because he’s her golden boy.

“It’s great, Gi. Good job!Gianna.” Of all the things I need to do in a week, getting through this video call with a child who clearly is less interested in it than I am is the most stressful. “Gianna, for God’s sake!”

The music stops again. “You’re very stressy today, Hallebear. What ever happened to gentle parenting?”

“Well, I’m not your parent, for starters, and you may find this surprising, but reading about how Orwell’s vision of a dystopian future written in 1949 stands against the reality of today is not my idea of a fun Wednesday night.”

“Why?” she asks, spinning around on her desk chair. “What other options do you have? I saw Will pregaming a party on his story, so I know he’s not with you.”

The casual mentioning of my ex knocks me for a moment, and it’s a sad reminder that I haven’t had the courage to tell my family we broke up yet. I love my sister, and ordinarily I’d share my life with her, but I know as soon as she needs to divert my mom’s attention she’ll throw my breakup to her like throwing a dog a bone.

It might seem foolish to assume any parent of a college-age child would be that invested in their love life, or loveless life in my case, but my mom sends me pictures of wedding dresses for fun.

In the theme of keeping secrets, I also haven’t told Gigi about the writing competition. That’s less about her snitching to my mom, though, and more about the fact I have no freaking clue where tostart. All I’ve ever wanted to be is an author, and I can’t even decide on what story to write for the competition. I have so many ideas that I genuinely thought it would be easy, but nothing feels right. It doesn’t exactly fill me full of hope about my chances of winning a place in that course. Every single resource I’ve looked at says write what you know, and, as it turns out, I happen to know very little.

“I was invited to a party.” I don’t know why it sounds like I’m lying when I’m not, but there’s a hint ofI can’t quite believe itin my voice. It’s enough to stop Gigi’s incessant chair spinning and for her to dramatically plant her hands on her desk, and drop her jaw in shock. “And I think I’m going to go.”

“Since when doyougo to parties without Will?” She picks up her laptop and carries it with her as she drops onto her bed, tilting it onto its side as she lies against her pillows. “Who are you going with? Where are you going? Is it a book club thing?”

“Cami—the girl I work with—invited me. It isn’t a book club thing; I think it’s the basketball team or something. I can’t remember.” Can’t remember being code for the fact Cami said the name of the guy who’s throwing the party and I have no idea who it is, so I’m guessing from the basketball emoji she sent. “So, yeah. More interesting than high school English homework.”

Her surprise isn’t even that insulting because it’s very un-me. “What are you going to wear?”

This is the thing I love about Gigi—she doesn’t dwell on things. Once she’s processed it, she rushes on to the next thing. The next thing being telling me I can’t wear what I wanted to wear because it makes me look like an elementary school teacher.

“Maybe I want to look like an elementary school teacher.”I do not.

“And maybe you watchedMatildatoo much in your formative years. Can you borrow something from your friend?”

“I don’t really know if she’s my friend, so I don’t know if it’s okay to ask to share her stuff. Plus, she’s really slim, so realistically no.”

One of Gigi’s eyebrows creeps up to allude to her confusion. “What do you mean you don’t know if she’s your friend? She invited you to a party.”

How am I supposed to explain to a fifteen-year-old—who once called our mailman her friend because she sees him every day and, to her, that’s friendship—that making friends is not easy for every person? Especially as an adult when it’s difficult as hell? That there are new categories that spring up with no instructions? That it’s a directionless minefield that I’ve been failing to navigate since birth?

Cami is great, but is she a work colleague? Is she a work friend? Is she a friend that I also work with?

I could obsess over this for hours. Ihaveobsessed over this for hours before. “Why couldn’t you have just let me live in ignorance?” I ask, not entirely talking about my outfit given how my friendship status is the main thing on my mind.

“What kind of sister would I be if I let you go to a party looking like Miss Honey’s socially inept twin?” she says playfully.

“A good one, because I don’t think I have an alternative. And hey! I’m not socially inept. I’m just out of practice.”

Out of practice feels like an understatement. I used to go to parties with Will at his college, and he’d encourage me to get ready with the girlfriends of his teammates. I’d go, I’d try, and no matter how hard I did try, I’d never had a good time. I just didn’t fit into his college life as his girlfriend the way I’d fit into his high school life as his friend. I don’t know exactly what I did wrong, but Will eventually stopped encouraging me to get ready with them. Or they stopped inviting me, I don’t know.

Sighing, Gigi rolls onto her back and balances her laptop against her knees, giving me the perfect view of the top of her head and a poster for a K-pop band I’ve never heard of on the wall above her bed. “Okay, well, I’m going to go, because watching you spiral is bumming me out and I have math homework to do.”

“Drop a bomb and leave why don’t you.”

“You’ll be fine. Love you. Bye, Hallebear. Make good choices.”

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